How was she supposed to convince people who knew more than she did? People who’d been studying a disease she’d learned of only a month ago? There had to be something—anything—she could offer them.

Of course.

“I can help,” Ranka blurted. “With your research.”

Foldrey grimaced. “I think you’ve done enough.”

But Percy said, “Wait.”

“Use me.” Ranka leaned forward as far as her restraints would allow and looked straight at Aramis. “You’re studying my blood-magic, right? That’s why Percy keeps stealing my hair, why you take my pulse and analyze every little thing I do when we fight. But what if I could give you more? Those witches, they’re dying of a fake blood-magic, right? What better than a real blood-witch to look for a cure?”

Aramis and Percy looked at each other, something unreadable passing between them. Foldrey stared at the ceiling, probably wondering what he’d done to be cursed with a problem so far outside of his duties. But Galen—patient, quiet, never-wanted-the-crown Galen—was looking at Ranka.

“We should do it,” Galen said, his voice soft.

Aramis whipped her head around. “What?”

He straightened, making a point to lock eyes with Percy, Foldrey, and Aramis individually. “Ranka’s not the only one you’ve been lying to.” He paused. “Our city is under attack from a plague that mimics blood-magic. There are only a few real blood-witches alive every generation. We have one in front of us that wants to help, and we’re going to say no?”

They all glared back at him, but Galen held his ground.

“Seaswept is my home,” Galen said, his voice deadly soft. “This is my city. My burden. You’ve all been so desperate for me to step up, to take responsibility and act like a leader. Well—now I lead. We need Ranka.”

They glared back at him, but what could they say? Galen was right.

Percy kept his voice carefully disinterested. “If she ends up betraying us, there’s a lot of fun tests I can run on her corpse.”

Foldrey glanced quickly at her. Was that a flash of anger in his eyes, or something deeper? He rubbed his face with his hands and inclined his head toward Galen. “I follow you, always. If this is what you think is right—I’ll stand by you.”

Aramis remained silent. She sat with her arms folded, legs crossed and foot bouncing, watching only Ranka.

Galen turned. “Aramis?”

Her chair scraped the floor.

Aramis crossed the room. She leaned over Ranka, a stray curl clinging to her forehead, and locked eyes with her. Sweat gleamed on her skin, and the gold flecks of her irises were liquid in the half-light of the salt mines.

For a wild, foolish moment Ranka thought Aramis was going to kiss her.

Aramis pressed her knife to Ranka’s jugular.